


Marching On

by selinipainter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, F/M, FanFiction.Net, Gen, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, in which if you barely squint there might be an unrequited love from blaise, pre Last Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:26:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selinipainter/pseuds/selinipainter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's many sides to a story. And these are just the tip of them, of the night before the Last Battle. Dedicated to all the brave warriors that fought in the battle, be they fallen or still amongst us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marching On

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story after listening to Marching On by One Republic. It was published on ff.net on the anniversary of the Last Battle last year.

_There's so many wars we fought,_  
 _There's so many things we're not._  


* * *

_For those doubts that swirl all around us,_

 

Ginny quietly straps on her holster. No one notices as she pulls out the scrap of a photo, a kind of map she created. A little after the fashion of the Marauder's Map, it will only ever be a shade of it. Harry quietly smiles up at her, his eyes slowly brightening. Whispering some spells over it, she waits, dreading the answer. It spells out 'Hogsmeade'.

' _Oh..._ ' She can't bring herself to do more than that. Because there's enough to worry about here that to think about all the things that could go wrong with him. Ron and Hermione are there and that's enough, she supposes. Hermione's not infallible, Ron's not that put together either. Even so, as long as she can cling onto this sliver of hope, she will make it.

Somehow.

"Be safe," fingers mapping the crooked smile, she wipes the map clean with her wand tip.

* * *

_For those lives that tear at the seams,_

 

Neville storms around the Room. Seamus, the bloody _idiot_. He's missing again. Probably off on one of his crusades to save the first years. Neville hates that he can up and leave any time to save them when Neville's stuck here just so that no one else gets in trouble.

He wishes he were back home in his old attic and the Room does not disappoint him. A perfect replica of that blue garret that smells of musty clothes and stale memories materialises all around him. Sinking to his knees, he threads his fingers through his hair. A nervous gesture that is too much used these days.

'Oh, if only they were here.' Neville is sick of this pretence that he is made off strong, stern stuff like his dad. Famous Auror Longbottom. He hates it, hates the fact for the sake of everyone's faith, their hope, he has to pretend to be so strong. Pretend to be like Harry. He is and will only ever be a _boy_ who is still scared of Snape and wants to shrink back out of the spotlight, the pedestal that he has been placed upon now.

* * *

_We know,_

 

Draco stumbles into Crabbe's trunk. Quick as a fox, a hand snaps out and grabs him mid fall. Regaining his composure, he acknowledges the tall boy, "Blaise."

"What was it this time, Draco?" a cynical smirk mars the otherwise sleepy face of Blaise Zabini. Draco jerks his thumb towards the general right, indicating the first years dorm. Blaise lets out a hiss of anger. They may be Slytherins but they are not evil. Seeing all of it, growing up with it, they did not want to be that at the end of the day. Maybe as children, yes, but they did not know any better.

"Carrow forced me to use the Cruciatus on Creevey, Dennis Creevey. Finnigan broke the party halfway and got caught in the crossfire," he explains. He can still hear the shrill screams and pleading of the mousy little _child_ , the jubilant expression on Alecto Carrow's face when Finnigan came in. Enough was enough, another day of this and Draco was going to hunt down Longbottom personally to join his renegade movement. Damn consequences, image and all.

If only he were a Gryffindor.

* * *

_We're not what we've seen._

 

Minerva Mcgonagall. What a stunning name, such a name that would make one take immediate notice of its owner. But said owner's now nursing a Firewhiskey and ghosting fingers over pictures of long ago. Aging digits trail over fiery hair, trace the arrogant, boyish smirk on a bespectacled boy who was just too good at Transfiguration, stroke the poor brown head that is bent over a book. She smiles a little at the boy who has his head thrown back laughing, his long hair waving rather solemnly around him. That is until she notices that traitor, and without thinking, she snarls "Incendio!" Before she could stop the charm, the photo curls up, blackened and dead like all the ones in the picture.

Oh, if only she could return to those years, when she was just a newbie at all of this. Before she could feel anything but annoyance or indifference towards these children now who have seen more than adults twice their age. But she remembers if she were not here, who would stand up for that small, scrawny child with too big green eyes? Her conscience corrects her, he's not a child anymore yet not quite a man either. Because either way he should have never seen the horrors that he did. It should be a crime punishable by Dementor's Kiss because she may as well have committed treason when she never did anything but stand aside and push forward her own agenda.

* * *

_We keep marching on._

 

And that's what they do. It will come to a head soon. All too soon, but until then, they will just survive. Some a bit too wholly, others a tad too fragile. They have got to keep moving on, because that is all they can do for now.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to all the fallen, to all the living.  
> The brave ones, the witty ones, the loyal ones and the cunning ones.  
> They battled Lord Voldemort to win the freedom of all.  
> They succeeded but at too high a cost and too low a blow.
> 
> Honour them, remember them.


End file.
